


Lazy Afternoons

by Ghelik



Series: Life after the Mountain [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys In Love, F/M, Fluff, Love, Post-Mount Weather, enjoying life, just two kids, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:11:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some afternoons are just slow and beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Afternoons

John Murphy is a lot of things: a lowlife, a thief, a murderer and, in this particular moment, a happy man. Not so long ago he hadn’t thought possible that he could ever be a “happy man” but, what do you know, here he is.

  
He had been very angry, very bitter and very alone for a while. He knows it was mostly as a direct result of his own doings. He had fought off the feeling that he was an unworthy disappointment by enveloping himself in layer after layer of bitter disdain. He had resented so many for so long; hate turned into a second skin. Loneliness came as a byproduct, and he didn’t mind that much. He likes being alone. Most of the people around him are untrustworthy anyway. They’re like him: cheats, selfish pricks that will throw you to the metaphorical wolves – or, in some remarkable cases, to the not-so-metaphorical-sea-monster.

  
There’s only a very – very – small percentage of the population he actually likes.

  
For example, he likes Clarke. She’s smart, she’s resourceful, and she’s a good-ish leader. He knows what makes her tick. That’s something they have in common she and him: they both trust people as soon as they know what they want, how they think. It’s not an excellent quality. He’s heard some of the nasty stuff people say behind Clarke’s back: manipulating bitch is not even the worst of them.

  
Who else?  
  


He likes Bellamy who wears his heart on his sleeve. Bellamy reminds him of his father, and his father is one of the few people he’s ever really respected. Murphy was too young to really remember, but he knows his dad had some really amazing motivational-speech-abilities. Murphy knows his father had single-handedly talked some mutiny attempts in the Ark down. People listened to him because he was a natural speaker. They trusted him because he was a good man.

  
He likes Miller. Miller never made a fuss when he heard him crying in their tiny cell in the Skybox, let him think he hadn’t heard anything. Murphy’s not naïve enough to believe that, but he knew he could count on him. He’s grateful for that.

  
He liked Mbege, but he’s not here anymore, so there’s really no point in thinking about him. Keeping sentimentality to a minimum is important.

  
He likes Raven, a lot. Loves to listen to her ramblings, it’s funny even when he doesn’t really get much of what she’s saying. He likes the look she gets, so unguarded and light when she’s talking tech. Also Raven’s good to Emori, he likes everyone who’s good to Emori. She deserves better.

  
For the rest of the arkers, he feels different degrees of indifference and dislike. He tried his stint at hatred because hate is easily fueled and powerful, but after trying to hang Bellamy, he can’t find it in him anymore. Hanging Bellamy and shooting Raven are probably his two worst mistakes. Afterward, he tried to find his footing but found himself slipping into a void: an unsettling emptiness that threatened to drown him.

  
When emotion decided to come back, it did with a vengeance and in a rush of excitement, brightness, and fun.

  
Now he’s happy.  
  


This happiness is a respite, like taking a deep breath of fresh air after being underwater for a long time. Something will go wrong soon. He knows, and that’s why he’s savoring every second of this.

  
He’s lying on his back in the relative coolness of his and Emori’s tent with an armful of gorgeous grounder.

  
It’s one of those lazy afternoons where they have nothing to do, nowhere to be.

  
Emori’s painting patterns on his skin with a small horse-hair-brush that tickles every time it brushes over his ribs. He knows she’s planning on putting another tattoo on him and is trying out different patterns, but she hasn’t managed to convince him on a design yet, and it’s not like the snake on his arm is finished or anything.

  
Her warm breath ghosts over his skin, her tongue is poking between her teeth, and she has that cute little furrow between her eyebrows.

  
She doesn’t look up, speaking to his side where she’s putting a twisted pattern.

  
"Everybody calls you Murphy."

  
"Yes."

  
"Why?"

  
He looks up. Shadows are dancing across the white-red roof of their tent. He has to clear his throat to dislodge the knot there.

  
"My father’s name was John," Emori’s brush doesn’t stop moving over his ribs. "After he…, "he clears his throat again.

  
He tries to put the feelings into words. He’s never had to explain this to anybody. He just had to ask to be called Murphy, introduce himself as Murphy a few times, and it took.

  
"I-I never felt… worthy? Of that name… It’s… It’s like I’m dragging it through the mud or something, y’know?"

  
He looks at her without raising his head, trying to gauge her reaction. She’s frowning at a sort of flowery thing she’s put next to his navel.

  
"I call you Jonn."

  
He gives her a rueful smile, tries to put a little bit of cocky into his voice, but even he can hear how it falls short.

  
"Yeah, well, you do things most don’t."

  
Murphy has to look away when she raises her dark eyes at him.

  
"What is it?"

  
He feels himself blush and keeps his eyes averted.  
  


"You make me feel like I can be worthy?" It comes out strained and high pitched sounding insecure and pathetic.

  
His throat is closing up. He feels weak and stupid.  
  


Emori sits up and, for a horrifying moment, he thinks he’s pushed too far. She’s leaving. But she just drags herself up his body until her forehead rests against his, her brown eyes boring into his. And it’s difficult to look at her when she’s so close, knows he’s cross-eyed, but can’t look away.

  
"You, John Murphy, are worthy. And I am very proud of you."

  
Murphy doesn´t know how to answer that. Doesn’t know if he even can – his throat seems to have closed up completely. So he sneaks his arms around her back and pushes her down onto his chest.

  
Emori yelps, falling like a brick against his ribcage. He presses her against him, settling her head beneath his chin and just clinging to her for a moment. He can feel her smiling against his throat.

  
"You just ruined all my patterns. The ink was still wet."

  
"Admit it, I just gave you an excuse to paint on me again."

  
She snuggles closer, kisses the side of his throat.  
  


"You love it."

  
He’s smiling, warm and surrounded by his favorite person in the world.  
  


"I love it."

**Author's Note:**

> As always this was unbetad.  
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting.


End file.
